But, it’s too late.

Certain sentences and picture echo in my head. These words haunt me. Yesterday the phrase that chased me down on my drive home from work were Qua’s words,  “But it’s too late for me.”

When I sit down in my bathtub to write, these little divine fragments are pieced together by the parts in me that are also divine. My god-parts pull together the god-parts that I experienced in pieces all day long. While I write I am worshipping. The God in me, the God in others, the God I feel in the most unlikely of situations.


Writing is my response to when I hear God’s heart beating. Yesterday, I heard God’s heart thumping when I advocated for a young man who everyone views as apathetic or a burden on the system. Truly, Qua doesn’t believe in himself. He has giving up on his self, his dreams, his future. But I have not. And when I laid myself down for his future, I heard the thumping of a Father’s heart for a fatherless generation.

And deep in me, is a need to respond. To piece together the little divine jewels scattered around in my chaotic but enthralling universe. Stringing together pearls in my bathtub with my pen.


I didn’t understand why I so deeply care for this boy. The boy who’s addicted to his phone. The boy with his hood up and his pants down. But I do.  I openly call him my “favorite” because he desperately needs to be someone’s favorite.

And yesterday,when we gather to advocate for this man, who may or may not deserve advocacy, I hear a mother’s cry and prayer. Tequilla, in her tight cheetah dress, puts her hands up and expresses gratitude to God and to us as his teachers. She’s been crying and praying every night for someone to advocate in this school system. No one in her family has ever graduated high school. On the road, Qua is going, he won’t be graduating either.

No, but he will.  I will be there for him. I will check with him everyday.

Yesterday, in the meeting after all the teachers agreed to give him late work so he can pass, He didn’t chime in exuberantly. He said, “But it’s too late for me.

Since that day he was born a black boy to a single-mother in the projects, he’s been haunted by the phrase, “Its too late for you” He lost the race before he began.

Tell me what you honestly think!

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